


The Girl & the Gun

by SmutWithPlot



Category: Original Work
Genre: ACAB!Pinkertons, Country & Western, Historical, Western
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-07
Updated: 2021-02-06
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:41:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24064492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SmutWithPlot/pseuds/SmutWithPlot
Summary: The job was simple: Accompany the frontier doctor and his daughter to Chicago, and then maybe take the train East to get her hitched. He didn't anticipate being chased by the old war buddies who had left him for dead, or the less-than-honorable Pinkertons chasing them. At this point, it'll take a miracle to get them there in one piece.





	1. Prologue: Pinkerton

There's a reason they called it the wild West. There was a cruelty to it, a harsh, barbarian abandon that didn't care if you were some well-taught doctor from New York, an illiterate freeman working the railroad, or a misplaced soldier, wandering without a home. The natives didn't care what color you were, they just knew you were shooting their livelihood, and they didn't take kindly to it. The laborers didn't care where you got your fortune from, so long as you shared with them. The farmers didn't care how arid and unflinching the barren landscape was, so long as they could grow a crop to eat. The soiled doves didn't care if you were covered in soot or sweat or blood, so long as you paid your share.

The desert didn't care. It had been there long before you, and it would still be there long after you.

One poor soul had already met his end. Shot in the back like the coward he was, just a step away from the fence that was all wood, rough cut and oiled, an enclosure to mark where the master's ownership of the uncaring dust ended. Already, the flies and unseen beasts of the wild had started to claim him for their own.

A man sits on a horse, his coat dusted eggshells. His upper lip sported a thick, curling mustache like banana custard, and he had a fat cigar in his lips, as if he didn't know he was in the wilderness. Perhaps he'd merely stepped out for a stroll around his gardens, and gotten terribly lost. Another man comes to him, spurs singing their despair, a hand on his hip. "Got three more inside. Two girls, probably the farmer's daughters, and a man in full gear. Probably one of theirs." There are two other bodies in the courtyard. Another, this one a woman, was tossed aside from the front door of the ranch house.

Allen puffed on his cigar, untouched by the violence. There is the glint of a badge as another man comes around the corner, his face red from the sun, and his lips hard with anger. In his fist is a Mexican boy, maybe 15, the beginnings of a mustache patchy on his lips. "Found this one hiding in a barrel 'round back."

The boy is tossed to the ground and looks up at the man on the horse. Even the white and speckled beast seems to stomp in disapproval at his existence. He bows his head, making promises in Spanish that the others don't understand.

A third man stepped out of the house, a serape of red and white and yellow around his shoulders, wearing dust-covered boots and tired eyes.

"Mr. Wallace," the man on the horse drawls, cigar in his fingers, with all the propriety of a Southern gentleman. "If you'd be so kind."

Wallace moves forward, and the boy looks between the two.

"Que ves, chico?" he asked, his voice gentle, unlike the pistols that hung from his hips. The boy answered, eyes worried, but words clear. Wallace looked up. "Says a band of six came in. Five left. An hombre in black was one of them." The boy continued, and so did Wallace. "Said they shot everyone up, took the women, then shot them too. Stole all the guns and food, then ran off North."

The man on the horse chewed on his cigar. "North, eh? Does he know what they were doing here?"

Wallace put the question to the boy. "Said they were looking for someone named Carstairs. Interrogated everyone. But no one knew who that was."

The man on the hat smiled under his white hat. "Carstairs, eh? Well, I'll be damned." He tugged on his reigns and took his horse out of the courtyard. "Kill him."

Wallace pulled out a gun, and the boy began to beg for his life. Wallace's face was peaceful as he pulled back the hammer. The begging turned to praying. Wallace let him finish before he fired, and the desert went silent.

Silent but for the whipping of the wind and dust and howling, hungry wild.

"Well. I think I know who our bandits are now," Allen said. Perhaps he'd realized where he actually was at last. "Let's see if we can't find 'em. Round up, boys."

The other Pinkertons took up their horses, and they rounded the ranch to head North, leaving the bodies behind for the buzzards. After all, a sacrifice to the cruel gods of the desert was one way to keep their favor.


	2. The Good Doctor

William Carstairs didn't like trouble. He'd had more than his share of it already, and he wasn't much interested in more. Which was problematic, as he didn't have the patience to be a farmer, the humility to be a worker, and the two things he was best at was drinking whiskey and shooting things. It had served him well in the service, but with the war over, there wasn't much need for that. It left him with only a couple of options: some cushy gig as someone important's bodyguard (which was a good way to get shot), sign up to join the new Pinkertons (which was a _great_ way to get shot), or sign on as an escort for someone else too nervous to own a gun, but not so broke as they'd be better off buying one anyway. Still a chance of being shot, but also maybe they listened to him and they avoided trouble.

Carstairs also had the boon of being able to read, which was uncommon this far west. He had a spirited and unpopularly clever mother to thank for that, even if he hadn't been blessed with her smarts. Unless her immaculate embroidery translated to his marksmanship, in which case he would thank her kindly. Instead he took after his father, who didn't mind hard work provided it was for a thing he cared about. And who liked his drink quite a bit.

There was a newspaper page in his pocket as he marched into town. It was pretty busy, far as most places went. There was a main street lined in buildings with hand painted signs - tailor, cobbler, cooper, carpenter, bank, and of course, the Sheriff's office...

Sheriff was a man in his late thirties, maybe mid-forties, depending on how many of his lines were from the job or the sun. He was slouched on a chair on the front porch, a gun at his hip, and his posture was relaxed. His eyes were anything but, sharp as a hawk's, watching the stranger as he chewed on a piece of straw. Carstairs made no move to hide his guns, nor to attract attention.

There was also a saloon, the second most important thing to have in a town to make it a livable, thriving place of commerce. There was a tinkling of honkytonk muisc floating over the swinging doors, conversation warm and pleasant inside. A pair of drunk cowpokes stepped out, their lips attempting a jest or two, slurring and swaying visibly. Carstairs steps to one side to avoid their wide steps, but he didn't let them stop him.

There's a cathouse, too. The first most important thing. A trio of doves were fanning themselves on the porch in their silks and finery, promising the carnal luxuries of marriage without the domestic obligations. They gossiped amongst themselves, and made curious sounds as the stranger swept by.

"Afternoon, stranger," one of them cooed. She was thick and busty, corkscrews of crimson hair spilling over her shoulders while emerald eyes watched him. The girl next to her had the brown skin of dulce de leche, her dress in scarlet roses and black lace, and she blew a kiss. Beside her was a girl in a pink kimono, her eyes like chocolates, the silk tucked tight around her.

"Afternoon, ladies," he answered, tipping his hat. "Y'all look lovely today."

" _Gracias_ ," the latina replied.

"Won't you join us?" the jade asked.

"I would love to," he answered. "Alas. I have business to attend to. Another time."

"We will be waiting," the latina assured him.

 _They got some nice girls here,_ he thought with a smile. 

But he did have business to attend to.

He found the doctor's office nestled between a general store and a blacksmith, the ringing of his hammer on metal audible halfway down the street. He could have saved his last penny for the barber, but there was always the chance this didn't work out, and he would need that penny for something else. Still, he'd done his best to shave and pull his hair back into something like sensible. He took his hat from his head, and opened the door.

Dr. Hammond's Medical Practise was a clean place, an achievement out here in the wilderness. Signs advertised veterinarian services plus bloodletting, dental work and the usual surgical necessities. There were pictures for folks who couldn't read, too. It was an open room of a building, a desk tucked to one side, with (presumably) Dr. Hammond sitting behind it. The wall was lined in licenses and degrees framed and hung with pride. Behind him was a bed, covered in white linen and a table covered in instruments. A bookshelf sat on the wall, full of thick tomes and notebooks, and more metal pieces that Carstairs couldn't fathom the purpose for. The good Doctor looked up with a smile, and looked every bit like you would expect from a well-to-do frontierland doctor: a crisp cotton shirt, handsome waistcoat, a pocket watch tucked into one pocket with a slip of silver chain clutching to a button. He had circular glasses on his nose and a tarnished wedding ring on one hand. He was clean-shaven, muttonchops on his cheeks, and kind, crinkled eyes that did their best to be reassuring. Carstairs had known enough medics to know that was a lie Doctors told themselves as much as their patients.

"Ah! Mr. Carstairs, I take it?"

"That's my name." He eyed the instruments behind... Knowing what a few of them did, and they made his skin crawl.

The Doctor gestured to the wooden chair opposite him. "Sit, please."

He did so, watching the doctor scribble in a lined notebook, feeling like a bit of a fake. Like he usually did when he pretended he was a gentleman around people who really _were_ gentlefolk. Some of them didn't take kindly to being lied to, but that was the only way to make a living. Or maybe it's because he had always been really bad at lying, preferring to stick to the ugly truth. He tugged at his own shirt, rumpled as it was and not fully buttoned. The waistcoat was aged and torn in a couple of places. The denim had been a darker color once, as was the black duster that was more dust than black. His guns were cradled in his coat, a weight of their own, and the nearly empty pouch of ammunition at his hip. He gently set down the large, dusty seabag that had seen better days since he'd been given it in the service. He set his hands on his hat as he waited, spurs singing as he tucked his boots below him.

The Doctor finished his note, and transitioned to another. The familiar, unexpecting professional politeness of an employer who didn't want to give away excitement or, more likely, disappointment. "So. Mr. Carstairs. Why would you be interested in escorting myself and my charming daughter to Chicago, hmm?"

"Well... I could use the money. And as it so happens, I have business to attend to out that way."

He always felt like he was giving stupid, plain answers to carefully crafted questions. His eyes wandered to the licences and degrees... most of them marked with Boston and Philadelphia, places so far away he'd never been to them. And scarcely heard of people who had, outside of the service.

The Doctor scribble a note that even Carstairs couldn't decipher. "May I inquire as to what kind of business?" He looked up at the gunman with that same empty smile over his round spectacles. "If that's not too much to ask, that is."

Carstairs tore his eye away from the handsome clock that was ticking away like it wasn't a novelty at all. "Actually, it's rather personal business." And then he hesitated, as if he wasn't sure... "Sir."

The Doctor raised a hand. "Of course. You are quite right. My apologies."

He made a note, and Carstairs chewed on his cheek, unsure of how well he was doing so far...

"If you did get the contract," the Doctor asked, "How soon could you be ready to depart?"

Carstairs cleared his throat. "Well, I could leave first thing in the morning, if I had to. But... A couple days to close my accounts." Another hesitation. "Sir."

The Doctor's eyes sparkled, and the smile felt a little more genuine. "Excellent." He scribbled something else, and circled it for emphasis. "And the salary was acceptable?"

"It's fine with me," he said. _Any salary would be fine with me_. "But I expect I'll get some of that upfront.

"Of course. And I will cover expenses as well." Another note. "How long do you suppose it might take us to get there?"

Carstairs blew out of his cheeks, considering it... "I can make it in a little under three weeks myself. Maybe two on horseback. Depends on the pace you want. And on trouble."

The Doctor's smile dropped. "Trouble?"

"Well, sure," he said, tugging on his guns. "The local wildlife and bandits. Sheltering in towns is best safety-wise, but if you want to save time, you march straight. You can get lost in the wilderness, and not like who you find."

For a long moment, the Doctor stared at him, and Carstairs couldn't quite... make out what it meant. Then finally, he said, "That's refreshingly honest, Mr. Carstairs." He set down his pen and crossed his fingers, leaning forwards across the desk. "I take it you've made a trek like this before?"

He nodded. "I have, sir. It's a very long walk, if you don't mind my saying."

The Doctor smiled, but this time it was a sad one. "That it is, Mr. Carstairs. That it is." Then he took off his spectacles, his eyes twinkling with amusement. "How would you feel if I tripled the salary, and asked you to accompany us via train to New York?"

The gunman's heart near stopped, eyes wide. "Sir?"

The Doctor leaned back in his chair and closed the book before him. "It's not often men are honest with me, Mr. Carstairs. As a doctor, I appreciate better than most the ease of a pretty lie to cover a cruel truth. I have had many would-be rangers knock on my door for a chance at this ride, and none have ever been honest with me." He rested his hand on the ledger, as if it were a Holy Bible. "Trust is very important to me. Especially considering that I am going to be entrusting my life, and that of my only daughter, into your hands." Cold blue eyes, like a winter's pond searched into his, a fierce and jealous love burning in them. "I want a man unafraid to tell me my horse needs rest, that we need more water, that our rations are low. I need a ranger who knows the land, knows the perils. Someone I can depend on." And then he blinked, and he smiled, and the fire cooled, fanned by professionalism. "Can you be that man for me, Mr. Carstairs?"

He swallowed hard. And made a note that the Good Doctor was not someone he wanted to ever have on his bad side. "I can do my damnedest, sir."

The Doctor's smile turned... predatory. "Excellent."

Then the Doctor put his spectacles on again and returned to his previous, idle politeness. The difference was unnerving. Carstairs watched as he rifled through the drawer and pulled out a leather billfold, and held up his pen again. "How much do you need for your accounts?"

Carstairs wished he knew how to lie.


	3. Abigail

It didn't take too long for him to get himself squared away. The piece of paper the Good Doctor had given him had a much bigger number than he was absolutely comfortable with, but it would certainly take care of his debts. Debts he hadn't thought would be fixed so well, but here they were. He spent the better part of the afternoon at the banker's, arranging for the sums to go to different places, and made sure he found himself a horse and rations and more ammunition than he should ever need before he found himself back at the saloon. A room, first, then downstairs for a celebratory drink and to mingle with the ladies next door. A little bit of celebration was certainly in order, and he felt like a weight had been lifted off of his shoulders.

He almost didn't mind the thought of maybe being shot, or marching across the desert to Chicago. It wouldn't be fun, to be sure, but he had done it before. Or something like. And this was the biggest paycheck he'd ever had since his signing bonus with the service.

He arrived at the Doctor's homestead bright and early. A little hungover, but not so much as to make it a problem. He'd gone to the barber, too, and looked a bit more presentable this time when he knocked on the front door. The maid who answered the door was polite and welcoming, and led him into a small little receiving room, and offered him a drink. She then stepped into the house at large to let her master know he was there.

It wasn't much bigger than his house with Sharon had been, actually. At least, not from what he could remember. There was a soft blue, almost white, that was painted on the walls, neat paneling striping behind wood carved couches and a coffee table, and a couple of chairs. He could see a dining room of sorts (or more specifically, the dining table) through the doorway she left in, and he idly tapped his fingers on his hat as he waited.

But the Doctor wasn't the one who came to meet him first. Instead, it was a woman. A young woman, but plenty old enough to have a couple of kids under her belt by now, and he stood up quickly, making the usual niceties to her. She had buttermilk blonde hair that did not match her father's, and bright peach-colored skin from the desert sun, red upon the apples of her cheeks. Her dress was nice, but not extravagant by any means. Simple, but well-made.

"Oh, please, Mr. Carstairs, no need to fuss," she answered him with a light laugh. "There's no need for decorum here. We're going to get to know each other quite well by the end of things, and I don't think we need to go about all of this sitting down and standing up when I walk in the room. But I do appreciate your eagerness." She had a sharpness to her eye that was doubtless her father's doing. "We're very happy you are willing to take the trip with us. Daddy's been trying for some time to get us back home."

He nodded, anxious now, not liking being in a room by himself with a girl who was, after all, in the market to be married. "Ah... Yes. Yes, that's what he was saying." He licked his lips, nervous. "You ah... You are from New York?"

She nodded. "Binghamton, actually. Or, rather, my mother is." A sad smile. "Can't say as I've actually been, myself." Her eyes looked out to the window. "It'll be my first time meeting a lot of my family there."

She's never been either, he thinks to himself. For some reason, the thought is both comforting and troubling.

At that moment, there was a sound of delight from inside, the Doctor coming out to join them. "Ah, here we are! Mr. Carstairs, this is my daughter, Abigail -- who knows no propriety." He wagged a finger at her, but the grin on his face belied how much he cared for propriety, as did the way she shrugged with no contrition whatsoever. "Abigail, this is Mr. Carstairs." A sigh. "I never get to do introductions. She just ingratiates herself everywhere."

"I'm the unofficial town welcome wagon," she whispered behind a hand and gave Carstairs a wink.

For his part, the ranger looks between the two of them puzzled, but bemused. "I... See."

"But, since you're here. It's good that we all sit down." And he did so, choosing an armchair between either couch. He starts by looking to her. "Now, Mr. Carstairs and I spoke, and he said we could leave in as few as a couple of days. Could you pack by then?"

She bit her lip, hesitating for a moment, but nodded. "Yes, Daddy. I think so. We won't be taking much anyway, yes?"

"Quite right, child. Anything you bring with, you have to carry. So pack wisely." And he turned back to him. "Now, I did talk to Mr. Wilson." He was the fellow at the general store. "He sent me an itemized list of everything you ordered, I'll have it taken care of. Anything else we should get?"

"I'd advise on an extra set of horseshoes for everyone," he answered, without hesitation. "I can pick up some tools for that kind of thing, and I can tend to the horses. But you'll want to talk to the blacksmith about it. I armed up some ammunition, too. If you want a gun, now's the time to get one."

At the word 'gun', the girl's eyes lit up, but her father quashed it with a warning look. "Don't even think about it, Abby, you're not getting a gun." She pouted, lip sticking out, but he didn't fall for it. "Anything else?"

"I mean... A map?" He shrugged. "I know some basics, but we'll want to get whatever the latest map they have available is. New villages pop up, and wells dry out all the time. Sheriff's actually the one most likely to have something up to date. You'll want to ask him for a copy."

The Doctor made a puzzled sound. "You know, I wouldn't have thought of that. I mean, map, yes. But the Sheriff..." He reached into his back pocket and pulled out another small leather notebook -- this one looked brand new, and the leather strap wrapped around it was holding an ink pen as well. He unwound the thing and scribbled a little note, his daughter glancing over his shoulder to read...

Fuck. She could _read_. That was going to be a big help.

Her father finished his writing and pointedly looked at her. She gave him big, owlish eyes of innocence. He chuffed and started to wind it back shut. "Children," he muttered out loud. "Well, Mr. Carstairs, I think you've certainly got a better handle on this than I do. Anything else you need, you let me know. We'll pack and let you know when we're ready. Ideally, we'll aim for your two more days, but perhaps it'll take a third."

"At your leisure, Doc," he answered, rising, feeling the epilogue coming. "I'm in no rush. I'd rather we be ready and take our time with this."

"Quite right, Mr. Carstairs. And... Where will you be staying?"

"Um, I'm just at the Pony," he answered, gesturing uselessly towards the general direction of the town. "Got a room above the bar for now. Should you need me."

"Of course. I'll send Josephine with word if I need anything, or to say we're ready."

"Sure. Um..." He debated how to phrase this. "Is she...?"

"Coming with? No. No, I'm afraid not." Hearing her name, the maid appeared at the doorframe with a sly smile, the Doctor sighing in resignation. "She has a rather insistent husband and a couple of children who would rather she not leave. Damned shame. She's a fine addition to any home."

"Especially my own, sir," she added, with a proud smile. "But I can keep the house just fine for you and Miss Abigail until you get back."

"At least there's that," he agreed. He rose as well. "We'll have to figure out how to go on without her." He was teasing and blew her a kiss from afar. She caught it with a smirk and pocketed it. "I tease entirely. She has a beautiful family. I won't dare to steal her from them." He moved to Carstairs and took his hand again, shaking it with both of his. "I do greatly appreciate you signing on. I was starting to lose hope we'd find _anyone_ worth taking. She'd end up marrying the first pretty face that came into town, and that could _never_ end well."

"For him or me?" Abigail asked, the picture of innocence.

Carstairs snorted, despite himself. "I would fear for him, quite honestly," he admitted, donning his hat. "I'll let y'all get to packing. You know where to find me."

"Quite right. Do take care of yourself. And when you get back into town, have lunch on me. I'm dreadfully underprepared to host, but Sally has a tab with my name on it. Help yourself."

He told himself not to abuse that offering. "Aye, sir. Thank you, sir."

"No, no. Thank _you_."He even escorted Carstairs to the door, and then the ranger was headed to town on his own.

Odd ducks, those two. Miss Abigail Hammond and her father. He wondered what the girl's mother was like, if she'd been as spirited and incorrigible as his own mother. It certainly seemed like it. It did his heart good to know that she wouldn't be just a liability in this trip. She seemed sharp, clever, and a bit wicked. Wicked was good in the wild. Smarts were what kept you alive. He had a good feeling that they'd make it to New York in one piece, barring any tragic twists of fate. And he hoped whoever had the pleasure of being her husband knew exactly how lucky he was.


End file.
